On the Death of John Lennon

This world unravels, bit by bit

Each thread that binds

Is torn in rage,

And desolation stalks where wit

And beauty walked

On some lost page.

 

From light to darkness; life and art

And talent bleeds

At every loss,

Each shallow murder strikes the heart,

The root, the branch,

The Saviour’s Cross.

 

Now at the height, some furtive thief

Has stolen yet

Another strand,

And left in thrall unyielding grief

To wonder at

This bloodied hand.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Tate Morgan]

I couldnt pass this one I remember I was 18 when this happened weened on Lenon I was crushed.A part of who I was died that day Or so I thought.He was a great man And I contented that I should wish to aspire to be remembered so